


All That I Am And All That I Have

by everyl1ttleth1ng



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, F/M, FitzSimmons Secret Santa, Fluff, Humor, Romance, middle-ages-esque setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5549483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everyl1ttleth1ng/pseuds/everyl1ttleth1ng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a Middle-Ages-esque setting, Sir Philip Coulson can’t afford the extensive upkeep of his family castle but he does have a lovely daughter. A wealthy nobleman (and father to Leopold Fitz) is in the market for a bride for his son. A deal is struck but Jemma soon learns that there’s more to Fitz than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That I Am And All That I Have

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aretsuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aretsuna/gifts).



 

“I _shan’t_!” fumed the golden-haired teen, throwing down the rudimentary machine he was tinkering with. “What do you say to that?”

It wasn’t too much of a stretch for his ageing father to picture the boy petulantly stamping his foot like the four-year-old he’d been not so _very_ long ago.

“We’ve been through this awful process too many times already, Father! They’re all idiots!”

“Now, now, Leopold,” his father scolded him gently. “Try not to get any of that grease on your doublet. I can’t face another scolding from that uppity washer woman. And _please_ be nice. The poor girls we’ve met haven’t been much chop, I grant you, but we’ll have to find you a wife eventually.”

The boy huffed, running a hand through his unruly curls. “Alright, they’re well-meaning idiots, but _you’re_ not the one looking down the barrel of spending the rest of your life with any of them! Can you imagine talking about tapestries and minstrels all day long? I’d sooner poke out my own eye with a fork.”

The father surveyed his son compassionately. “Ah, but Leo,” he said. “ _This_ one is different.”

“Ha! _Right_ ,” the boy replied. “I’ll believe _that_ when I see it!”

 

…

 

“Tell me, Father,” Jemma sighed in exasperation, blowing out the air with such force that the wisps of hair tumbling out of her hastily-pinned-up chignon momentarily stood to attention. “This Leopold Fitz whose dowry offer has so turned your head, is he at least one of the more respectable lords? Many of the titled oafs I’ve encountered in this horrendous process can barely string a sentence together.”

Sir Philip nodded apologetically. “He seemed eloquent enough, if a little shy. Let us hope, my dear, that he is, at worst, the best of a bad bunch.”

“Am I to at least meet him first?” she enquired, turning back to the elaborately-cogged mechanics of the security draw-bridge she’d designed to fall over their crocodile-infested moat.

“I expect him and his family to dine with us this evening,” her father replied. “Do you think it might be possible for you to look at least a little less grease-covered by then?”

Jemma shrugged. “If I _must_.”

Philip placed his hands tenderly on her shoulders. “Jemma, you know we wouldn’t be doing this unless it were an absolute must. The upkeep of this pile of stones-”

“I know, Father,” she sighed. “And I thank you for giving me the choice to sell the castle rather than endure this trial. But Mother is buried under that giant oak in the garden and you loved her with everything you had.”

“And that was despite being pledged to one another from birth in the dynastic machinations of our fathers,” Philip winked.

Jemma sighed.

“So perhaps you’ll forgive _this_ father for _his_ dynastic machinations?” Sir Philip asked gently.

“That is entirely dependent,” Jemma replied, “On the quality of the man with whom you shall expect me to further my dynastic obligations!”

“I have a good feeling about this Fitz,” Philip replied as he walked out of Jemma’s workshop, leaving her to return to her tinkering. “A few months into the negotiation process, it turned out he had a book of your designs that he seemed quite eager to discuss with you.”

Jemma’s head snapped back to attention. “Wait, Father!” she called. “He had my designs?”

Philip nodded, smiling knowingly. “And not only did he have them, he somehow knew that ‘Mr Antoine Triplett’ was merely your pseudonym. I suspect that Daisy might have been taking certain liberties with your confidence at the market place.”

“And he _still_ wanted to marry me?” Jemma asked, incredulous.

“His father hinted at the fact that you’re the first prospect Leopold has ever genuinely entertained the notion of.”

“ _Great_ ,” Jemma sighed, now having to feign the exasperation she’d earlier been powered by. “A courting novice.”

“Give him a chance, Jemma,” Philip warned her gently. “He’s certainly got the money we’ll need to keep this castle in the family.”

But her father didn’t need to beg her. This was the first suitor that had not had to be advertised to her by means of his horsemanship or his prowess in battle or, far less attractively, the amount of mead he could hold. This man had her designs, knew they were _hers_ and yet came to court her anyway. Though she’d given no small amount of thought to tossing it all in and eloping with a particularly brainy young man who was well below her class and could do nothing to save the castle, this option was at least worth investigation.

Jemma downed tools and went to actually bathe.

 

…

 

Young Lord Leopold watched the noiseless descent of the Coulson castle draw-bridge with his heart in his mouth.

It wasn’t just that he had Jemma Coulson’s designs in his possession. Unbeknownst to her, they had been collaborating for some months now.

Mack, the enormous village blacksmith, had been raised alongside Fitz by a quirk of their mothers’ unlikely girlhood friendship. Always slightly older and much, much bigger, Mack had a calm confidence and easy manner that Fitz could only envy. He was capable, brilliant, good with his hands. Fitz had a spectacular brain. Together they made amazing things of which their subsistence-focused feudal community could barely even conceive.

But when Mack encountered Lady Jemma Coulson hovering around his smithy, the women he knew to be his friend’s as-yet-unseen intended, he thought it might be time his “apprentice” made an appearance.

Fitz had often found the opportunity to really get his hands dirty by donning a filthy smock and weathered boots and lurking in the smithy. Liberally smearing grease across his noble features and donning a moth-eaten cap to hide his curls, Fitz had assumed the persona of the smith’s humble apprentice, plausible because as yet Mack had no wife, let alone sons of his own to whom to teach his trade.

Summoned one morning to the smithy by young Campbell, who had an air of amused urgency about him, Fitz yanked on his grimy tights and obediently joined his enormous friend, hoping Mack had made a break-through on their joint ballistic weapons developments. They were extremely proud of their trebuchet which aimed to incapacitate a besieged castle rather than just tip in cauldrons of burning pitch and raze it to the ground.

He had stopped still at the sight of a lady seated on a stool beside Mack’s bellows.

“Ah, Lady Simmons,” Mack had boomed. “Let me introduce my promising apprentice… Terbeaux.”

She had looked at him with interest, something no one else ever did when he was dressed in his peasant garb, and extended her hand to him.

“Call me Jemma,” she’d said with a smile and he’d almost fallen over. His father had been right. This one _was_ different.

Before long the two of them lay side-by-side in fresh straw in the back room of the smithy excitedly pouring over their joint projects, and _of course_ it was Jemma who ultimately solved the ballistics dilemma. The pair of them seemed to do everything better together.

Jemma Coulson was unlike anyone Fitz had ever known and he’d met a _lot_ of noble women. His parents had them paraded them through the castle in a steady stream, hiding their rouged faces behind their fans, falling into faints from the tightness of their corsets. Suffice it to say, they did _not_ appeal to his interests.

But if he _must_ marry and if his wife _must_ be chosen from among the dubious nobility, then Jemma Coulson was the only possibility. They were friends already. Perhaps they could one day be more?

Now he rode across the bridge behind his parents, in his opulent doublet, wondering if she would even see him for the man she already knew him to be.

 

…

 

“Lady Jemma? Is that you?” Daisy asked incredulously. “Getting into an actual gown?”

“Oh, do shut up and come tie this stupid thing up will you, Daisy?” her mistress snapped. “As if it isn’t bad enough that I have to go through this ordeal. I’m not going to take any of your cheek.”

Daisy’s eyes narrowed as she noticed the gold braid glinting against the emerald green fabric. “But this is your _best_ gown.”

“So what if it is?”

Daisy took the end of the golden ropes and pulled as Jemma braced herself against the bedpost. “The other suitors have been lucky to see you in a dress at all.”

“Well, I suppose one can’t prevaricate forever,” her mistress gasped as her maidservant yanked on the lacings.

Daisy smiled to herself. “I suppose not. Who is this one then?”

“Leopold Fitz,” Jemma replied. “Not _too_ tight, Daisy!”

“And why has he so captured your interest that you’ve pulled out _this_ gown?”

Jemma glanced over her shoulder at Daisy as if wondering whether she could be trusted. “Father says he has seen my designs,” she confessed in a whisper.

“And he still wants to meet you?”

“He does!”

Daisy squeezed her friend’s hand. “ _Now_ I understand the dress.”

But it didn’t seem to matter _what_ she was wearing. Leopold was cold and aloof, he spoke not a word to her.

“He _hates_ me,” she whispered to her father on the rare occasion she could get close enough to him to converse.

“Believe me, Jemma,” Sir Philip replied, the smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’ve spoken to young Leopold about you. What you are seeing from him is _not_ hate.”

 

…

 

Dinner was an unmitigated disaster.

Fitz had always found Jemma endlessly easy to talk to in his rags in Mack’s smithy but somehow, in her gown, with her hair all done and without a hint of grease on her face or straw on her clothes, she suddenly seemed far more like a goddess than a girl. He didn’t even know where to look, let alone what to say.

Their parents were forced to carry the brunt of the conversation for them and he could sense Jemma watching him from her place across the table.

Eventually, after the meal, she addressed him directly. “My lord,” she said quietly. “Perhaps I could show you the view from the turret?”

It took a sharp nudge from Hunter, his man-at-arms, to even get him to nod. She almost walked away.

Jemma briefly looked to her father for permission and Sir Philip granted it with a slight incline of his head.

Fitz felt like he was in a daze as he followed her up the winding narrow stair. She seemed to float ahead of him in her voluminous skirts, the candle she’d thrust into his hands lighting the gold thread woven through her emerald green gown. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic and out-of-breath when at last they emerged into the chill of the evening air.

Above them, a myriad stars gleamed in the moonless sky.

“Do you mind if I ask how _you_ feel about all this, my lord?” she asked, approaching him as he leant against the casements in the rough-hewn wall. “You’ve been awfully quiet this evening.”

A lump caught in this throat. He couldn’t bring himself to reply.

She watched the side of his face as he struggled, placing her hands alongside his on the brick work.

“Then perhaps, sir, you just could answer me this,” Lady Jemma went on gently. “Do you _want_ to marry me? Do you think I could make you happy?”

Not trusting his voice, Fitz tentatively took her hand and lifted her fingers to his lips. Unable to even meet her eye, he placed a soft kiss on her knuckles.

He heard her take in a sharp breath.

When he raised his gaze she wore a shy smile.

“Very well then,” she whispered.

 

…

 

Later that night, Daisy brushed the intricate braids out of Jemma’s hair and quizzed her for details.

“What did he look like?” she asked. “Did you like him?”

“Leopold is very nice to look at,” Jemma mused. “Quite pasty, I suppose, but handsome nonetheless.”

“And what is he like to talk to?”

“Well, that was a bit _less_ satisfactory,” the lady replied. “He said not a word all evening.”

“Not one single word?” Daisy repeated aghast.

“Not one,” she sighed. “But…” A shy smile bloomed across her features. “He _did_ kiss me.”

“He _kissed_ you?” Her handmaiden was incredulous. “Did your father see?”

“We were alone for only a moment. I asked him if he actually _wanted_ to marry me and he just kissed my hand,” Jemma said, smiling.

Daisy grinned. “You _like_ him. You have a dizzying intellect, Lady Jemma, this Leopold of yours didn’t even say a word, but somehow, you like him anyway.”

“I think I do,” Jemma whispered.

“What about that Terbeaux you’ve mentioned?” Daisy asked suddenly. “Were you not thinking about asking him to run away with you at one point?”

“Mmm, but only to work together,” Jemma replied, “Now I can hopefully have the best of both worlds. A shy, handsome husband with all the money Father and I need to be able to keep our castle and Terbeaux and I can still keep up our partnership in Mack’s smithy.”

 

…

 

Their wedding later that week was extremely grand. In all the fussing that preceded it, Fitz found no chance to don his old clothes and run down to the smithy but Mack assured him that he had not sighted Lady Jemma either. Revelations regarding identity would have to wait until after the event.

Jemma was breath-taking in ivory silk, smiling shyly on her father’s arm as he led her down the aisle of the cathedral to the sound of pealing bells.

Fitz breathed deeply as she made her way towards him and tried to muster up the courage he knew he’d require to make his vows out loud. Jemma might have let him get away with only a kiss on the hand, the church full of people would be less favourably inclined.

Once they’d joined him at the altar, Sir Philip took his daughter’s hands, as was the tradition, and placed them into the hands of her almost-husband.

Jemma looked into Fitz’s eyes, her own full of hope, and somehow, when it came to his turn, he found his voice.

The very first ‘I will’ that he managed out loud brought on a slight furrow in Jemma’s brow. By the time he was repeating the lengthier bits after the priest, she was unmistakably smirking.

It wasn’t until they both clambered into their carriage outside the church and drove off that she thumped him hard on the arm.

“You’re Terbeaux!” she cried with a merry laugh. “I didn’t realise until I heard you speak _at last_. I just married Mack’s filthy peasant, didn’t I? What on earth would my father say if he knew!”

The relief of her knowing the truth at last washed over him. “Are you terribly disappointed?” he asked.

“Disappointed?” she cried, incredulous. “I almost suggested to you that we two run away together so that we could work!”

“You did?”

“But you had a _much_ better plan all along!” She suddenly thumped him again. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a lord?”

Fitz shrugged. “I didn’t know if you’d like the idea. I had planned on saying something, but when I saw you in your castle, in that dress, you just seemed so far from that girl with whom I’d been sprawling in the straw.”

“We shall sprawl in the straw all the time, you and I!” Jemma declared, nudging him fondly. “And _think_ of the work we can get done living together! I asked Father to send everyone out of the castle for the day and overnight to give my husband and me some privacy for our wedding night – I never dreamed it’d be _you_! You make us a pot of tea, I’ll run upstairs and get out of this impractical gown,” she flapped her voluminous sleeves at him, “and then we can get straight to work!”

 

…

 

Fitz had only been pottering around in the stone kitchens for a few minutes when Jemma re-appeared, still in her dress, her cheeks aflame.

“What is it?”

She plonked herself on a stool but couldn’t quite make eye-contact.

“Jemma?” he asked, sitting down next to her. “Are you well?”

“Terb… What do I call you?”

“Would just Fitz be alright?”

“Fitz.” She gave him a small smile. “I was up in my chamber… _Our_ chamber actually…” She paused meaningfully.

Fitz blinked at her helplessly.

“It’s just that… Well, this is my _wedding_ gown.”

Fitz grinned. “I know. I was there remember? It looks _very_ nice on you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Thank you. But it’s all laced up.”

“Ah.”

“And I’m fairly certain that the idea is… that you’re sort of supposed to…”

He listened wide-eyed as he waited to hear whatever was to come.

She gave an exasperated sigh at his failure to catch on. “You’re my _husband_ now, Fitz, and I’m your _wife_!” she said, not without a hint of annoyance. “You’re supposed to _undress_ me!”

Realisation dawned. His face reached the shade of hers and far surpassed it. “Oh.”

“And then we’re supposed to-”

“Right, right, yes. I get it,” he said quickly.

“Because don’t we have to consummate-”

“Alright, Jemma! Alright! I said I get it!”

“So,” she said, determinedly finding his eyes. “Are we married or not?”

He nodded boldly. “We’re married.”

“So, I either stay in this dress or…”

Fitz took a deep breath. “Or I take it off you.”

“Right.”

“Right then.”

 

…

 

Fitz wiped his palms on his wedding finery as they entered what was now the bed chamber he would share with his wife. He’d have to say that to himself many more times before he got used to the idea.

Jemma walked just slightly ahead of him, skittish with nervous energy.

“So!” he said, a bit too brightly. “How do we get this gown off then?”

Jemma’s eyes widened.

“Err, w-wasn’t that the idea?” Fitz stammered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m lost, Jemma. Help!”

“I’m just as flustered as you!” she said defensively, sinking onto the bed.

“Then what do we do?”

She squinted up at him. “I don’t know, maybe you should… erm… kiss me first?”

“Kiss you,” he repeated. “Right.”

“Had you kissed anyone before our polite peck in the church this morning?”

Fitz scoffed a laugh.

Jemma smiled, relieved. “Me neither. We’ll figure it out together.” She patted the bed. “Come and sit beside me.”

Fitz sidled nervously across the room and did as she asked.

Jemma giggled at the expansive gap he left between them on the mattress. “You might have to come a _bit_ closer, Fitz.”

He dutifully slid along the mattress until their thighs were lightly touching.

“This,” she waved her hand between them, “didn’t occur to you when you were negotiating for my hand?”

“Well… it did,” Fitz admitted. A shy smile crept over his face. “It might actually have occurred to me on more than one occasion. But once you realised who I was, I sort of forgot about all that. We’re friends.” He looked down at his hands. “I-I know my family has the money you need to save your castle, but how do you feel about h-having me too?”

“It’s a bit late to be asking that now, isn’t it Fitz?” she laughed. “Not half an hour ago I swore, in front of a lot of important people, mind you, to love you, and comfort you, honour, and keep you in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep myself only unto you, so long as we both shall live.”

“I suppose that’s true,” he replied nodding. A vulnerability suddenly crept into his eyes. “But do you think you might really be able to _love_ me one day?”

Jemma shrugged. “I think I’ve got a better chance of loving you than any other man I’ve ever met.”

Fitz smiled. “Why’s that?”

“Well, I _like_ you a great deal,” she replied simply, sliding a little closer to him.

“I like you a great deal too,” Fitz replied. “And I supposed we’ve got some time to work out the rest.”

“No, actually,” she replied. “Time’s up. I can barely breathe in this dress. You’re going to have to kiss me, Fitz.”

He was not sort of man who needed to be told twice.

They leant slowly toward one another with solemn intent. They’d seen it done after all. Theoretically, they were all over it.

It was Jemma who started giggling first and it proved to be thoroughly contagious.

Within minutes, fuelled by the adrenaline of surviving the marriage service and everything that led up to it, they had both collapsed on the bed in utter hysterics. It didn’t matter how many more valiant attempts they made, no amount of effort could successfully bring their lips together.

Eventually they _did_ have to abandon their plans and go downstairs for that cup of tea.

Still snickering and wiping away tears of laughter with the back of his hand, Fitz took charge of the teapot while Jemma took care of the fire.

She had always been quite fussy about how she drank her tea, so it took her somewhat by surprise that he handed her a cup that met her exact specifications. He pottered around in the larder while she drank and set to work making them each a sandwich. Jemma had never seen this sort of behaviour from a man before. It struck her as being deeply attractive.

“Fitz?”

“Mmm?”

“What do you know about… what husbands and wives do?” Jemma asked, her mouth full of sandwich.

Fitz studiously focused his attention on the food in front of him. “What do you mean?”

“Did anyone sit you down and give you a talk?”

He stilled for a moment before nodding. “Hunter, my man-at-arms. He’s always bragging of his… exploits.”

“And what did he say?” Jemma asked eagerly.

Fitz turned beet red. “You are a lady, Jemma. Trust me, you are _not_ supposed to hear the sort of things Hunter told me.”

“But what does it matter if I’m a lady? Aren’t we about to go and, I don’t know, do all those things together?”

“Not _all_ those things!” Fitz objected.

Jemma huffed out a sigh. “Well, I know we’re supposed to do _something_ up there and that it at least involves you taking my clothes off.”

She hadn’t imagined it would be possible for Fitz’s face to get any redder. “You take my clothes off too, actually.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Or I suppose I could just take them off myself…”

“And _then_ what?”

“Jemma! Don’t ask me-”

“Fitz! How am I supposed to know what we do up there if you won’t tell me!”

“Hunter did say,” Fitz choked out, “after I pleaded with him to cease and desist with the anecdotes of his conquests…”

Jemma nodded eagerly.

“…That we figure it out together. That we talk to one another as we go and that it’s my job to make sure that you are comfortable and happy.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding with satisfaction. “That’s alright then.”

“ _Extremely_ happy,” he muttered. “According to Hunter, if I manage to work out how to apply the theory he insisted upon imparting to me, you’ll be _screaming_.”

Jemma’s concerns came flooding back. “In pain?”

Fitz shook his head and even the tips of his ears turned scarlet.

“Oh…”

The conversation had been intriguing. She liked the way he blushed and stammered his way through it and she found it captivating that he seemed to be taking upon himself so much responsibility for her happiness. When he started organising a tub of water in which to wash up the dishes after they’d eaten, she found herself leaping to her feet, grasping his arm to turn him toward her and, before either of them could so much as smirk at one another, she’d grabbed his face firmly with both hands and kissed him.

The firmness and pliability of his lips against her own surprised her.

As it happens, it surprised him also.

He stepped back, blinking.

“How was that? she asked nervously.

Fitz devoted himself to further blinking for some moments, so Jemma was not at all expecting it when his arms shot out for her, pulling her firmly into his embrace. One of his hands roved tentatively up over her shoulder, over the pale skin of her throat and found a resting place against her flushed cheek. The other wound itself around her back and splayed between her shoulder blades holding her firmly against him.

He looked down and met her gaze. His eyes were ever so piercingly blue.

This time, he did not laugh.

His mouth, soft and warm against her own, was suddenly all there was worth knowing. Jemma leaned into him. His kisses were languid and tender and seemed to have intense power over whatever it was that thrummed beneath her skin. She felt utterly molten inside.

She pushed him against the wall as they staggered up the narrow staircase sometime later, stretching on tiptoe to press her lips against the soft skin below his ear. Fitz moaned and his knees seemed to go out from under him. He grasped her around the waist and pulled her down into his lap in the stone passage way where further extremely pleasant discoveries were made.

By the time they stumbled into their bed chamber for the second time, the atmosphere between them was no longer one of nervous anticipation. This time, every kiss and caress had an urgency to it. The very air around them seemed charged with energy.

Jemma had already guided his hands to the tight cords fastening her gown and his dextrous fingers had made quick work of the lacing, stirred by his sudden fascination with whatever it was that he might find beneath. Now she pushed him back onto the bed, yanking his doublet over his head to expose the thin fabric of his shirt beneath.

He gazed up at her from where he lay on his back, propping himself up on his elbows so that he might better meet her hungry lips as she clambered on top of him.

“Do you think we’re doing this right so far?” he whispered, slightly out-of-breath. “Are you alright?”

“Mmmm,” she sighed, her lips against his throat. “I _like_ it so far, Fitz. Do you?”

“I _do_.”

She raised herself up to boldly meet his eye. “Do you want to take off my gown then?”

His mouth fell open as he nodded up at her, eyes wide. “I do.”

She grinned. “Have at it then.”

 

…

 

A bright light pieced though their bed chamber from the casement windows. Jemma woke first and groggily surveyed the scene. There were expensive wedding clothes strewn everywhere she looked. And beside her, as naked as the day he was born, lay her new husband still fast asleep.

He really was quite lovely. The sunlight brought out the ginger lights in his curls and in the rough stubble on his throat and the little wisps of hair on his firm chest.

She had never spent much time contemplating what it would be like to be married. So far it had vastly exceeded her expectations.

His blue eyes flickered open when the beam of sunlight streaming in through the windows fell directly across his face. She smiled as he seemed to instinctively reach for her, gently gathering her into his arms and murmuring unintelligible words into her hair.

Suddenly he released her and went to get up. She grumbled in protest.

“Are we really the only ones in the castle?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

Jemma smiled up at him. “At least until midday.”

“Then I must begin our married life together correctly,” he kneeled back on the bed and leant over to kiss her. “I’m no knight, Jemma. This may be my only quest, but it is no less noble than the others!”

She giggled. “And what is this noble quest on which you embark, Sir Knight?”

“Father says that the trick to a happy marriage is bringing your wife a cup of tea in bed every single morning of her life.”

Her grin softened. “Are your parents happy?”

“They were. They were very happy until my mother died last year.”

“I lost my mother last year,” Jemma said sadly. “And until then my parents were very happy too.”

“Then we have been greatly blessed, Jemma,” said Fitz, slipping back into the covers and drawing her once more into his arms. “We have each seen real love lived out in front of us. Perhaps we shall be able to love one another as they did.”

Jemma smiled, placing a soft kiss to his collar-bone. “I think perhaps we shall.”

“Right,” he said, all action-stations, leaping once more out of bed. “Tea. You promise I won’t horrify any servants if I duck down to the kitchens like this?”

“I promise.”

He turned his pale form to the door.

“And Fitz?”

“Mmm?”

She grinned. “I shall enjoy watching you go.”

Fitz flushed and scratched at the back of his neck, smiling shyly.

 

…

 

After they had finished their second pot of tea, together with the plate of fruit, bread and cheese that Fitz had scrounged from the kitchens for their breakfast in bed, he resumed talking eagerly about their work.

“Have you got a workshop in the house?” he was asking excitedly. “If not, perhaps we could find some disused room that we might convert.”

Jemma nodded, smiling at the spark in his brilliant blue eyes.

“We can really get some of those designs off the ground at last!”

“And we’re you thinking we’d get going on all this _right away_?” she asked.

Fitz sat up and turned to admire his beautiful wife who smiled dreamily at him, ensconced in a pile of pillows.

“Did you have something else in mind?” he asked, grinning down at her.

“Would you be amenable to that?” Jemma waggled her eyebrows. “Or do you feel like we’ve got to get to work this very minute?”

“Well,” replied Fitz. “I _suppose_ there’s no rush, really, is there?” He dropped a soft kiss on her forehead. “We’ve got the rest of our lives. I don’t even know how far we’d have to travel to find an actual besieged castle anyway.”

His wife beamed up at him. “So, perhaps we can just let ourselves have a honeymoon first?”

“I think I’m going to like being married to you,” said Fitz, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

Jemma laughed, winding her arms around his neck and pulling him back down onto the bed. “Oh, I’m going to make _sure_ you do.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS, ARETSUNA!!! I SO HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS!!!
> 
> As unbreakablejemmasimmons/SuburbanSun said on tumblr earlier, this FitzSimmons Secret Santa Exchange has ALREADY given us an embarrassment of riches and it is seriously early days. You MUST go and read superirishbreakfasttea’s London Fog, eclectic muse’s Coming Home and pleaseletmeshowyou/ardentaislinn’s Exclusive (No Excuses) from Boxing Day.
> 
> As for me, I had started writing a contemporary arranged marriage AU for Aretsuna that was sent a little bit in the future but I got so caught up in answering the question “Why would a future society go back to arranging marriages?” that I lost sight of the characters. So I ditched it. For now. I hope it will be back one day and that it will achieve all of the things an arranged marriage AU is supposed to achieve!
> 
> Instead, there is this thing! The historical period is closest to the pop-culture-referencing-mish-mash that was the background to that fabulous Heath Ledger movie ‘A Knight’s Tale’ where the crowd shouts the lyrics to Queen’s ‘We Will Rock You’ at jousting bouts, royalty dance to David Bowie’s ‘Golden Years’ and young princesses visit hot knights in their tents late at night with no notable consequences – it’s about that historically accurate, okay? ;) Apparently, I’ve put so much effort into writing believable period-appropriate dialogue in The Master and the Midwife that I can’t pull it off anywhere else. Forgive me, Aretsuna!
> 
> Now that I’ve finished it, I realise the question I got hung up on this time was “How do you get around the consummation question in an arranged-marriage fic?” I just couldn’t think myself past it, I couldn’t for the life of me imagine Fitz forcing himself on an unwilling Jemma and I couldn’t imagine Jemma taking the lead unless she was really pretty happy about the whole thing. So I think there were a lot of tropes I probably should have hit with an arranged marriage AU that I just couldn’t! I’ll try to work it out with my next attempt!
> 
> Love to hear what you think of this one anyway and then hurry away to read those other super amazing fics I mentioned!!! Can’t wait to see what else is coming in this amazeballs exchange!


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